We Are Made of Stardust
by sayaanara
Summary: The line that divides life and death is very thin. Two outcasts quickly discover this, as their fates somehow intertwine between the two worlds.
1. Hush

**A/N:** Whoops. Look what just came out of me out of nowhere. I really have no way of explaining this. Basically, it's yet another multi-chap story, and I am very sorry about that. On another note, happy birthday to my queen, Mikasa Ackerman (2/10)! Thanks for reading, and please don't forget to share your thoughts and message on tumblr if you have any questions. Reviews are very much appreciated! :)

* * *

 **.: We Are Made of Stardust :.**

.: Chapter I: Hush :.

* * *

Silence is many things—awkward, uncomfortable, stale—but it is not quiet. In fact, if you were to ask Mikasa Ackerman, she'd call it incredibly, _ridiculously_ loud. Deafening, really. The kind of boisterous shout that requires no words, only a hollow look from Mom's eyes and the inaudible echo of words that cannot bring themselves to be said.

She's dying.

In her silence, Mikasa understands. Daddy went the same way she's going: drowning in liquor, grousing over drugs he'd inhaled way past the required prescription, cursing God, the world, fate or whatever, for the life he was made to live, as if it were not himself who created it. Silence is just as loud, just as irritating and revolting as any other shrilling scream.

Daddy left, in silence.

Mom fell into depression much the same way. It happened slowly, quietly, then misery snatched her up and sunk her to the bottom of countless Grey Goose bottles. They piled up like barricades, dividing what was left of their family. On one side, there was Mom—or, well, what remained of her—and on the other, Mikasa, left to gape helplessly as the epitome of grace itself, the very embodiment of beauty, her invincible gorgeous mother turned out to be very much human after all. Piece by piece, her glorious facade broke as her life caught up with her. And where Daddy liked to blame his problems on the world, Mom liked to blame them on her daughter. Mikasa, once a token of much pride, now resembled all the opportunities her mother lost, all the nights she had to skip on partying to babysit, all the weight she gained and allure she lost due to the punishments of motherhood.

And yet, it wasn't always this way. There was a time, long ago, when the world had color. When parents didn't split and fathers didn't disappear and mothers didn't give up on raising their child. That time has long since gone, and Mikasa, an eighteen-year-old, is nearly a grown woman. Yet she clings to the purity she once held, the oblivious innocence of her childhood; for it, if anything, remains clean in her life. Untouched. Beneath the stoic mask she wears is just a kid. But she's so good at hiding herself, you see. At silencing her inner voices. When you're raised in a broken home, silence—pretentious smiles and fake laughs and _oh no I'm fine yeah I'm just tired_ —becomes an art.

In her own tragic way, Mikasa Ackerman is an artist. Her body is her playground, and with swollen knuckles and split lips and and bruised limbs, she carves a crater into the world, fights her way through all the cruelty, all the ugliness, and refuses to give into the throes of petty, pointless sadness. Self-pity never made anybody great. Look at her parents. Look at her mom—alive, breathing, but dead all the same. Mikasa refuses to become like them. Every punch she throws, every kick, every dodge and duck and flinch is a testimony: I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.

Outside of the ring, though, fighting with your body isn't much of a benefit. All it gets you is detentions, and enemies, and a shitty reputation that repels any normal being from prowling closer than a foot away from you.

Jean Kirchstein isn't a normal being, though. There isn't a normal bone in his body. So when Mikasa rolls into school, he's the first one to greet her. Everyone stares. That's all they ever like to do. Whether it be in admiration, or disgust, it makes no difference. Through the callused shell of her skin and bones, deep into her core, past all the silence, there's a loud, loud, _loud_ scream, aching to be heard, ignored—and none of them, none of them, ever hear it.

"Good morning, Mikasa. What're your plans for today?"

Jean. With his odd, double-toned hair and sleazy grins, doesn't take the hint when she blatantly ignores him. She picks up the pace, clutching her books to her chest and walking much, much faster so that he's stumbling behind her. And even then, still: "Hey! Wait up!"

"What is it, Jean?"

"I just wanted to see how you're doing."

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Thanks."

"That's not what I meant! I meant—"

"Please, leave me alone."

He stalls, staring. Mikasa walks, but after a few steps more, she hears him go, "I'm sorry."

Cringing, she stops.

Way to go, Mikasa. You have all the endearing qualities of a chicken nugget. Congrats.

"Jean," she sighs, turning around to face him. "Forgive me. I'm just—"

"Rough night?" he motions to the bruises on her arm. Mikasa pulls her shirt sleeves further down to hide them, murmuring a yes.

"Another fight?"

"...Yeah."

"Your mom?"

"Still sick."

"So she's still at the hospital."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," he laments, honest and kind as always. "I shouldn't have bothered you today. I gotta learn how to pick my days better; can't have you snapping at me like that, or you'll lose your only friend."

Mikasa finds herself fighting back a tiny smirk (but very tiny, okay). "I'm not your friend."

"So you're my girlfriend!"

She knocks him one on the arm.

"Ow! Okay, I was joking. It was a joke. Jokes. Know what those are?"

"You're an idiot."

"You love me."

"Hardly."

He groans, clutching his chest. "My heart! It can only take so much in one morning, you know."

Somehow, somehow, he pulls a full smile from her lips. He gawks at her, smirking.

Mikasa shakes her head. "Come on. Let's go to class."

Jean, you see, isn't a bad guy. He's stubborn and annoying and sometimes spits when he talks, but in his heart, there's goodness. Despite the crush he's had on her for months, he's one of those rare breeds of human that don't make her _totally_ uncomfortable (only slightly) and that's okay.

They walk, onward into the mob of mingling voices, empty heads on empty bodies carrying backpacks and books. Jean's going on about some horrible car accident that happened last night, how apparently not all the bodies were found or pulled out of the wreckage, how poorly the media covered it all. It's all interesting to a normal person, but to Mikasa, the world cannot bear one more tragedy. She sighs. It's 9 a.m. and she's already feeling so damn tired. Just _being_ is exhausting. Existing is very much like shouting constantly through your pores, and hoping that somebody will hear you.

 **—o—**

The main road home is blocked by police cars, so Mikasa takes the "path of tall trees" as she used to call it when she was little.

Her uncle Levi _hated_ this road. "All these big ass trees," he'd grumble, going on about how useless they are. Seven-year-old Mikasa would scoff, "Trees aren't useless, they give us oxygen!" and that always earned her a glare, a hissed out "smartass". The only reason he didn't like them, she told herself, was because he was so darn small. Uncle Levi hated things that made him feel tiny. Which was funny, because almost everything did.

Levi, too, is gone now. And perhaps that is why she loves this road so much. She scarcely ever takes it, reserves it for only special occasions or absolute musts. Every trip through these trees is to be cherished, as they are good memories from her childhood. Every leaf carries a memoir, a small hope. Through the glass, she sees the branches swaying, tugged by the wind. The radio plays, quiet, so the sibilant sighs they make go unheard. This is one of those instances in which silence is a _good_ kind of loud. She ratchets off the music, and in the muted murmurs of the trees around her meandering car, she makes out her uncle's voice. Stern. crass, yet tender, full of tough scraping love—like tree bark. And then, all at once…

Peace.

Somehow, out of the blue, it finds her. It comes sometimes with silence. It comes sometimes with the reminiscent quieting of her soul. She misses him. She misses him so much. If she had to choose between a life without Uncle Levi and death, well… she certainly wouldn't choose this life. Some days, she can hardly bear it enough as it is.

An question sparks within her. _What if?_ What if she kept on driving, never took her turn to head home? What if she just drove, and drove, and drove on forever, made a new life, a new self, became reborn in some way? What if? She could start from scratch. At eighteen, she could create a new name, a new past, a new future for herself—a future where Jean Kirschstein isn't her only friend and her father's absence isn't so blatantly reflected on the cool shells of her mother's eyes. This moment is her life, and in one split second, the difference between turning right or keeping on straight is what will define the rest of her existence. Go home, or go _home_. Your choice, Mikasa.

For a split second, everything is black.

Just like that, a blink, and then suddenly, the world is spinning.

Tire screeches, like many things, are incredibly, _ridiculously_ loud. They swell up, twist, spin, blur, catapult straight to a bone-breaking jolt and then shattering glass, crunched up metal, and screaming trees introduce a broader, more permanent blink:

Silence.


	2. Avast

**A/N:** I haven't been able to focus or write for a very long time. And yet, somehow, this chapter still happened.

Next up: the dorks finally meet. I am excited.

* * *

 **.: We Are Made of Stardust :.**

.: Chapter II: Avast :.

* * *

Eren Jaeger knows death. Heck, he's even seen it with his own two eyes!

When he was five, his pet tarantula, Sally, died. It was very tragic. He came home to find her belly-up with her legs curled into herself. He cried for weeks, then Mom got him a puppy and he stopped crying. But still, the death of Sally The Tarantula left a big crater in his poor young heart. Aside from that, death is pretty darn simple—to him, at least. It's when something simply ceases to be. It's being here one moment, then out the next. Poof. Bam. No more. And there ain't no fancy portal that takes deceased beings to Heaven, or Hell, or whatever other silly afterlife our mortal minds have fathomed. Like plants, and animals, and Sally, people's existences just _stop_. That's it. It's very simple. Eren Jaeger knows death through and through.

Thus, he does not fear it.

One can only fear that which they do not understand. That's why when his best friend, Armin, who is smarter than anyone and understands an impressive ordeal of things, just doesn't get it when it comes to living out of _feeling_ , instead of _thought_. His nature is ruled by logic, not intuition.

"Why, oh _why_ is it necessary for your to jump from the highest rock?" he shouts between cradled hands, his high-pitched voice barely registering through the whooshing of the wind that smacks across Eren's dampened skin, cooling the beads of water that trickle slowly down his body.

"Because!" Eren shouts back, emitting a labored groan and climbing higher. "Momentum, Ar! It's all about the fall!"

"You're an idiot!"

"I know!"

"You'll die!"

"I won't! Just watch me!"

Even from way up high, Eren hears his best friend moaning.

"He's gonna die. This is how he dies. How will I explain this to his mother? She'll kill me. She'll…" Too busy calculating the exact speed he will need to run off the precipice to avoid hitting any rocks on the way down, Eren shuts the rest of his banter out.

Armin should've known. Truly. What did he expect when he invited him to the lake? Did he really think he'd _study_ like he'd asked? Hell no. He should know him well enough by now. As soon as the mere mention of a large body of water slipped out of his friend's mouth, Eren had his emergency swimming trunks that he keeps at the back of his car ready.

From way above on the tallest rock: "Ar! Watch this!"

Through the cracks of the dreadful fingers he slaps on his face, he does.

"Ready?!"

"No."

"One!"

"Eren."

"Two!"

"Dude!"

"Three!"

He's off.

Dashing through the wind, feeling the sharp rock jab the pale soles of his feet, his toes rasping dull points with a speed that could lacerate, he sprints to the edge of the cliff, jumps, and soars into the air that shifts from blowing around him to bursting upward from below his feet.

Armin's scream is loud, but not louder than the celebratory whooping of his falling, flailing friend. His body captures the light of the sun, casting a fleeting silhouette on the pristine water that descends faster, faster, faster, like a rocket through the clouds.

 _Splash!_

"Eren!"

He breaks through the water's surface, pinching his nose shut a second too late. It burns. Everything burns. The wind's howl is replaced by the muffled underwater gurgles of his body sinking into the lake. His balls hurt from the harsh landing, but as he sinks lower and lower, squeezing his eyes closed so that all that registers is darkness and the alternating temperatures washing over him, his soul buzzes with absolute joy.

 _I did it._

Slowly, Eren opens his eyes.

 _I just jumped from the highest friggin' rock!_

His lungs are clawing for breath by the time he kicks his way up to the surface, whipping his head around to throw his hair off of his face and gasp loudly for air. "Ar!" he yells, panting, smiling through aching cheeks. "Did you see that?"

"See that?!" his friend wails, a frenzied dot jumping in the distance. "I thought you died!"

Eren barks out a laugh, nearly swallowing down water. "Nah, man! I did it! That was like," he runs a hand through his hair, plastering it to the top of his head, "eight solid seconds!"

"It wasn't that long," Armin protests, placing a hand on his chest, what must've been the source of a fright-induced heart attack. "Like, four. Max."

A scoff. "Whatever." Eren throws his weight back, floating. Beads of light cling to his eyelashes, flaring in the rays of the afternoon sun. He sighs, smiling softly. "I did it." And he survived. That's what life is about: testing the limits, living to the fullest, trying out just how far you are brave enough to go.

Invictus, Eren decides that as soon as his energy is replenished, he will try again.

"Alright, Superman," calls Armin, bored of watching his friend float mindlessly like a log. "It's time to head home."

"One more!"

"That's what you said two jumps ago!"

"Please? Come on!"

Patience is a quality Armin naturally excels at. Eren, not so much. He jumps off another three or four times before he's _really_ satisfied. The entire way home, he doesn't shut up about his new record.

"Six solid seconds, Armin. Six!"

He's just lucky to be alive, he's told.

 **—o—**

Armin stinking hates parties. But Eren insists that where they're going isn't a party, it's a _bonfire._ Same thing, he says, that's just a party with fire. Although somehow, his pyromaniac best friend manages to conjure flames wherever he goes, whether it be a party or a simple amiable gathering.

"Remember that time you set Ymir's hair on fire?" Armin squawks, playing with flaxen strands of his fringe.

Eren snorts, clutching the steering wheel with both hands instead of his usual one-hand maneuvering. "Yes. No. We're not supposed to bring that up, remember?"

Armin sighs, sinking deeper into the passenger's seat. "I don't trust you anywhere near a bonfire."

Two heterochromatic eyes roll a tinge too dramatically, in all honest opinion.

"Whatever, man. It's Christa's birthday, we gotta go."

"Do you realize how dangerous it is to be driving out here? Two accidents have happened on these roads in the span of twelve hours. Two!"

"Armin, listen to me."

"What?"

"Cake."

"…"

"…"

"No."

"Cake, man, cake! Do you realize all the food that's waiting for us at that big ass house?"

"Jesus." It's a plea to no god, for Armin is an atheist. But his best friend? His stubborn ass sure does test his faith at times. Believing in God must be so nice, you can just look up to the skies and ask for salvation.

But there's no salvation from Eren's manic driving. He jolts the car to sharp turns, abrupt stops, rapid leaps over hurdles that are meant to slow drivers down but that he deems a challenge. Car-sick doesn't describe the level of ill that plagues the small, fragile blond by the time they're coasting through the woods to Christa's mansion. On trembling feet that scream ecstasy upon meeting the gravelly ground of her massive driveway, he stomps over to the front door, his nose keen to the scent of burning wood and an animated fire, a hefty contrast from the cheap febreze Eren's doused all over the inside of his car so that his mom doesn't smell weed on him.

"Armin, wait up!"

He doesn't.

Taut fists hail down on the door. He raps a total of three times before the mythological Norse monster they all know and love appears, sporting her usual ripped jeans and wrinkly flannel top.

"Ymir," Armin pipes, jumping on his toes. "It's so good to see you! I, er…" He points a finger to the side of his head. "I like what you've done with your hair."

Her freckles crinkle with a cynical expression. "Bah," she dismisses, raking her fingers through short brown locks that once fell down past her shoulders. "Cork it, blondie. Whatd'ya bring?"

"Booze," says Eren, trotting up from behind him. He holds up a bottle of Jack Daniels with a dumb grin on his face. "Nice haircut."

"Nice face. I reckon it's a miracle you still have it."

"I said I was sorry!"

"Sorry won't bring back my hair, you piece of cheese nipples."

"Cheese nipples? Really? That doesn't even make sense!"

"I knew pairing up with you for lab was a bad idea."

"Oh yeah? Well, we got an A."

"That's because Hange had to call the fire department and she felt bad."

"But—"

Armin cuts in before the prophetic insults weaving on Ymir's tongue have the chance to shoot out of her mouth. "Guys, please. We're not even a foot past the front door and you two are already going at it."

The Norse queen and the pyromaniac huff: "Fine."

They go in, and _bonfire_ is clearly a blatant understatement. Party doesn't even cut it either. It's a damn _circus_ in there. A circus of alcohol-fueled, half-naked teenagers that hop around from room to room, furniture to furniture, like monkeys swinging on imaginary tree branches, hurling imaginary piles of shit.

"Gosh," Armin sighs among the chaos, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I should've known."

Eren only grins brighter.

"Eren!" everyone cheers, shrieking in drunken bliss. "Hey, man!"

Armin, of course, is received with milder enthusiasm.

He tries—really, really tries—to make the best of it, which eventually culminates to latching onto a red Solo cup (filled with sparkling water, no less) and ambling awkwardly beside his social best friend. Eren's drunk in minutes. Probably more, but it feels like a blink of time before he's staggering around and gazing through glassed eyes.

"Eren." Armin stares into the odd combinations of gold, green, and blue that make up his irises. "Dude. Eren. Look at me."

He blurts, spitting on him."I am!"

"No, you're not, you're looking _over_ me. Look _at_ me. Focus on _me_. Look at my face."

"I'm—!" the voluptuous rear of a passing female steals his attention, pulling his head to turn, and marvel, and _whistle,_ oh god.

Armin groans. "Jesus." This was—and he's damn sure of it—a big, big, big mistake.

They s(cream)ing happy birthday to Christa Renz.

They da(ngrily twerk)nce to deafening, cacophonous music they like to call (c)rap.

They all m(ake out)ingle and interact like the large, happy family that they are, while Armin spends the night on a tight corner, petting one of the Renz's many cats.

Until Annie Leonhardt, whom he has had a humiliating, mind boggling, palm sweating crush on since the fifth grade, randomly acknowledges him and offers a sip of her drink.

"It's jungle juice," purrs the lavish, fascinating shape of her lips. "Try it."

He slurps it, and something about the way she gives it to him, how her crystalline blues reflect the bright azure of the liquid that fuels his courage and fills his crowded, throbbing head, just feels so… nice. So, so… _nice_. Yeah.

"Want some more? I'll grab you a cup, hold on."

Her hand on his skin, her fingertips brushing the pale hairs of his arm, her blue eyes on his and her smile, her sweet, sweet smile… Suddenly, Armin remembers why he even bothered to show up here in the first place.

 **—o—**

Eren feels fucking _amazing._ Like, whoa. Beer in one hand, a joint in the other, he thanks everything holy for the badass resistance his body has to getting sick while he's drunk _and_ high. Armin's puking somewhere; Annie got him drunk. He thinks he'll go congratulate the little man, but he can hardly walk straight, let alone find his skinny blond ass. But he feels, he feels…!(?)

He feels calm.

He feels bad.

He feels fine.

He feels atrocious.

He feels like a million bucks.

He feels like a fuming pile of shit.

Eren laughs. He's alive. He feels so damn _alive_ right now. Good, bad, stupid, funny, everything, everything all at fucking once. He could scream at the tops of his lungs, but something in him prompts him to stay quiet. He could sprint for miles, but his bones feel heavy as lead. He could kiss like fifty girls, but when a blonde one with peachy lips latches onto his arm, he shakes her off—just to contradict his own desires. He laughs, he laughs. He can't stop laughing.

Then the joke isn't all that funny anymore.

"Where's Armin?" breathes the forlorn gasp between his teeth. "Armin, Armin, Ar…" He wets his lips, staggering. Where's Armin, a girl asks him. Where is your best friend? He doesn't know. He doesn't know! "Armin, man, what the fuck? What the frickle dick on a skinny stick?" At that, he laughs again.

Ha ha. Frickle dick.

Hah.

"Armin…"

He's running.

"Armin!"

Out of breath, running.

"Min-Man!"

Drunk, high, sloppy, stupid, Eren tumbles forward and trips on his own two feet. There are others also looking for him, for Armin. He's lost. Where is he? He's not with Annie. She doesn't know where he is. So where is he? Eren's gotta save him, he's gotta find him. This is his first time being drunk, anything could go wrong. He's lost. He's lost! In the woods! Lost! His Best buddy! His Min-Man!

Eren struggles back to his feet, calling out for his friend. He walks on for what feels like forever, even ventures into the woods, where bands of people have formed to scout for Armin.

Suddenly, his foot catches. A branch.

A gasp, then he crumbles.

The world shatters, spins, falls and blurs with a pang so incredible, so loud, so painful, that a darkness no hell could ever fathom usurps his vision and crows in the trees around him: echoes that shake every leaf, every branch, noisy. So much noise. Eren hears his own body meet the earth with a damp, squelching thud. He coughs up dirt, and goes to stand, but his badass resistance seems to have finally failed him. You're just lucky to be alive, Armin had said. Armin. Oh, god, Armin. Eren wheezes, a dry sob. His head throbs, aches. He's blind. And there is so much darkness. And there is so much noise. And there is so much happening all at once and then it all goes darker and blurrier and even the noises go dark and blurry until suddenly everything just…

Stops.


	3. Alive

**A/N:** Happy birthday, Eren! Also, I made a playlist for this fic. You can find it on my 8tracks account! I suggest you listen to it as you read. Enjoy _!_

* * *

 **.: We Are Made of Stardust :.**

.: Chapter III: Alive :.

* * *

 _Am I… dead?_

 _I'm dead, aren't I?_

 _I am. I'm… I'm actually dead._

 _This is it. It's… It finally happened._

 _It's over._

 _Mom. Dad. I'm sorry._

 _It's over._

 _I'm…_

 _No._

 _No. No, this can't be happening._

 _I have to wake up._

 _Wake up._

 _Wake up!_

 _Mom. I have to take care of Mom._

 _Dad's not here anymore, I gotta take care of Mom!_

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

 _Please. Please, wake up._

 _Wake up._

 _Wake up!_

 _Wakeupwakupwakeupwa_ — _!_

 **—o—**

He wakes up.

Dried mud encrusts the side of his face, his chest, his jeans. He remembers falling, landing on his temple as the rest of him followed like a wet rag. But now, he lays on his back. And he doesn't understand. And it's cold, so cold when he blinks the weary blur away.

The sun rays that creep through the tree branches are the warmest, most beautiful thing he has ever seen, God's own fingertips reaching down to caress his cheeks.

He thought he'd died.

But he didn't. And he doesn't know why, but he's on his back, and when he moves a hand to touch his forehead, he feels some sort of cloth. It's soaked in something. When he goes to peel it off, he sees—with an involuntary wince—that it's blood. His own blood.

Somebody had to have done this.

"Armin?" It's a cracked, hoarse, hope-ridden squawk, breaking through the layers of sleep in his throat. "Ar… Min-man?"

Nothing.

Sighing, groaning, and very slowly, Eren brings himself to his feet. He looks around. Somebody had to have done this.

It's so cold.

He walks.

Languidly, and with steps that drag as if his feet were chained to heavy weights, he traipses through the woods into what must be early morning fog. It's some minutes later that he hears footsteps from behind.

His muddy boots halt.

"Armin?" Eren whips around in search of his friend. Again, nothing. "Fuck." Another five, six steps later, and he hears a branch crunch under a foot that doesn't belong to him. "Armin!" he whips again, heart pounding, headache throbbing. "Come on, man, cut it out. I know you're out there." Nope. "Ar?" Nada. "Dude," he sighs. "Look, uh… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you all alone with Annie. But you've been crushing on her for ages so I just thought… I thought… Actually, I don't know what I thought. But please, _please_ , man. Come out from wherever you're hiding. You're my best friend and I need you and I'm sorry, you have every right to be mad at me. I ditched you for girls and weed. Shit, I always ditch you for girls and weed. Agh. I'll change, I promise. I'll be a good man for you, bro. Just come out? Please?"

Nothing.

"God damn it."

Walk.

Twenty minutes go by, Twenty minutes of drunken staggering and crawling shadows in the mist. With every motion, leaves and branches crumple underfoot, owls hoot and birds flap their wings in abrupt flight, complementing the eerie silence of the fog around him. Where is everyone? Eren wonders this, or, well, half wonders, for his mind is still tangled in last night's events. He remembers smoking… something. And making out with… someone. Li… uh, what was her name again?

Damn it. Eren's never going to find Armin—or anyone—in this state.

He starts jogging. It's like fire to his knees. The poor man, barely nineteen, and already at the pinnacle of his athletic capacity. The ankle that he sprained playing football two falls ago throbs painfully, and maybe it's because he might still be a little drunk, and he has mud all over him, and he's stressed, but he swears he hears footsteps behind him again, so he runs faster, breaks into a sprint.

Until he falls.

Cursing, Eren claws at the cold dirt, struggling back to his feet. A giggle— _Armin?_ —stops him.

"Who's there?" he spits, swiveling.

The laughter stops.

"Hello? Armin?" No response. "Sasha? Con?" Still nothing. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He stands.

That's when he sees her.

A girl. With eyes like steel and hair like charcoal and skin as pure as snow. Her lips, parted in mild surprise, are pink smudges on the pale canvas of her face. Eyebrows angled and sharp, thin like the twigs that crunch beneath her stalling feet. She's an angel. For a breath, Eren honestly believes it. The sun sets behind her, sinking like a ship into the vast, swallowing horizon. It's not morning. No, no, Eren had been wrong, so wrong. He didn't know that in moments, the sun would disappear, leave him in dusk. And that then they'd still be standing, like this, here, staring, wondering if one can truly see the other.

Then she screams.

"Get away from me!"

"Whoa!" Eren ducks from a swinging tree branch, one she fucking _ripped_ free to attack him with. He hadn't noticed that he'd approached her, brought his hand out to touch her, feel that she was real. But he's ducking for his life by the time he comes to realize, shouting, "Hey!" Another swing. "Stop— Oof!"

Right. On. The. Crotch.

Eren groans, falling to his knees, cupping his groin. Goodbye, future children. He keels over, moaning, forehead to the clammy ground. "Fuuuuuuck… _ow_."

"I'm…" Her voice, once a shrill scream, quiets. In a moment, what had previously been like nails to his ears, becomes a kiss, gossamer and tender. She has the voice of someone who seldom ever uses it unless it is absolutely necessary. Like right now. To apologize. Profusely. "I'm sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—"

"You pelted me right on the balls."

"I'm sorry!"

"With a tree branch."

"Oh, God."

"A fucking tree branch."

"I—"

"What's wrong with you?"

She stammers, the branch still in her hand. Then she flings it away to the side. It lands among the leaves, rankling them. "It's just an instinct. I just…"

"Fight?" Eren finishes, still kneeling, cupping his aching balls. "God," he wheezes, out of breath. "I get it. Your first instinct is to fight. I'm… I get it. But damn, why did you have to hit me _right there?_ "

"I'm—"

She snickers. She fucking _snickers._

"What?"

She's laughing now.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she grins, pressing the back of her wrist to her smile. And what a… nice smile she has. "Nothing, nothing. It's nothing."

"Uh-huh. Sure." Eren winces, struggling to his feet. "Jesus," he pants, recovering slowly. After a moment, he finally stands. "What's a girl like you doing here anyway?"

She frowns, dark eyes glowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Huh?"

"'A girl like you'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, uh, nothing? I just meant… I meant to say it's pretty odd for someone to just be wandering around the woods on their own. Especially after what's been happening around here."

Her frown deepens. "What's been happening?"

"Accidents," Eren sighs, relieved at the subsiding pain in his… yeah. "Two in the same week. People are starting to say that it's the forest. It's haunted, they think."

"People are crazy."

"They are, aren't they?"

"The woods are peaceful. I enjoy them."

"Me too."

"But I… I don't know why I am here."

"Are you lost?"

"Yes."

"How did you get lost?"

"I'm not sure."

"Crazy night?"

"I suppose."

"Same here." He laughs, which breaks into a coughing fit. "Blegh," he spits to the ground, rubbing at his temples. They throb, dried blood caking them. He probably needs to get that checked soon, but he can't bring himself to leave the girl yet. He thinks of how he had awoken earlier, staring into the dwindling light of day, lying on his back, _moved_. "Hey, uh…" and he almost feels dumb for asking, "were you the one that wrapped those bandages around my head?"

The girl tenses, casting her gaze to the side. "Yes, that was me."

"Where the hell did you find bandages?"

"They were in my hand."

"They were?"

"Yep."

"Okay," he voices dubiously. "So you've been watching over me."

"You were only out for a few hours. What did you smoke?"

"I can't remember. But I lost my best friend."

"You lost him?"

"Uh, yeah, sort of. Although, come to think of it, I think it was all just the effect of the d—"

"Drugs."

"Yeah…"

"You're a bad kid, Eren."

"I'm not that terrible." He smirks, but then gasps. "Wait, how do you know my name?"

The girl's eyes widen. She parts her lips, setting no words free. "I don't know," she whispers finally, staring at her feet. "I… I really don't know."

Eren narrows his eyes at her. "Are you psychic?"

"No."

"Can you see the future?"

"That's what a psychic is, so no."

"Are you cold?"

"I… Yes?"

"Yes?"

"Yes."

"Here." He offers her his jacket, holding it out between them. "Take it."

She hesitates, something she does often, Eren notices. Eventually, though, she takes it, drapes it over her shoulders, sighing, smoke slipping out of her mouth and vanishing into the chilly air.

Eren smiles. "It's warm, isn't it?"

"It is. Thank you."

"No prob." Silence. He scratches his belly, chewing on a split lip, wincing. "Do you… um, do you have anywhere to go?"

"Not really."

"No home? Nothing?"

"I do have a home. I just have no way of getting there." She sighs again, biting the inside of her cheek. "I'm lost."

Eren frowns, rubbing his palms together and sighing into them so that they warm up. "How long have you been lost?"

"I'm not sure."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"A bit."

This gives him an idea.

"Hey," he beams, "how about I take you out for dinner?"

"Are you crazy?" She scoffs, which makes him grin. "You just woke up from an impractical coma."

"So? Life's short. Go out with me."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Dang."

"I was driving," she says suddenly.

Eren blinks at her, confused. "Huh?"

"I was driving. That's the last I remember. Everything went black." She's quiet for a moment, then clears her throat. "I woke up here. Then I found you on the ground. I couldn't just leave you there. I watched over you for a bit. And now," she motions vaguely to their surroundings, "here we are."

Eren nods slowly, looking around. There's hardly any light left in the sky. The girl's features are becoming silhouettes, the smell of mud on his clothes staling. "Do you know what time it is?"

"No."

"Shit. And you don't remember how you got here."

"I told you, I was driving. Suddenly, I was walking amongst the trees. I can't explain it, but it's as if part of my memory just disappeared."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'll be fine. I just need to find my car. I've looked everywhere. It's nowhere near."

"Let's go find mine. I'll drive you home. We can pretend that none of this ever happened."

"Pretend?"

"Sure. You ever done that?"

She wilts, breathes: "Yes. Yes, I have."

"Then let's go."

He walks, but she doesn't follow.

"Hey, Eren?" squeaks her quiet voice, making him stop, turn, look at her.

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you for a favor?"

"Sure, yeah, what is it?"

"Could you… um, could you touch me?"

He laughs. "What?"

"Touch me," she commands in all seriousness. "I feel kind of… fuzzy. I just… I want to make sure this isn't just another dream, you know?"

"You have dreams like this often?"

"Just touch me, please."

"Um. How?"

"Simple. Place your hand upon my body. Touch me."

"You do realize how dirty that sounds."

"Touch me, Eren."

"But we just met."

"Touch me."

"You keep saying that."

"Eren."

"What?"

"Touch me."

"But—"

"Shut up and touch me!"

"Okay, okay! Sheesh."

He does.

Birds squawk in the distance, their cries resonating through the trees. Eren stares at the woman standing in front of him, at how she closes her deep nighttime eyes. She seems, and feels, unreal, like a creature fathomed by the stars, far too exquisite to be absolute. He reaches out, expecting to find nothing, but when his hand meets the fabric of her sweater beneath his jacket, it's soft and very much there. They're both there, somehow, standing amidst the palm of God's hand, interlaced, coalescing, a freak collision of impossible creations where two dimensions combine beyond the laws of nature. His world meets hers, fingers brush her wrist, and she gasps softly at the contact. Solid bone and smooth skin, she is perfectly present. Perfectly alive.

"See?" he assures her, "you're not dreaming. You're here. You're real. This is your life, and it's up to you to live it as best you can. So live. And help me find my car so that we can both head home and take a damn shower, will ya?"

And they walk on, to find his car, together. Christa's house is practically abandoned, save for her evil dog Max, who barks and snarls at Eren as he searches for his car keys. There's no sign of Annie or Armin, but something tells him that's alright. It's not until they're coasting through the trees that he thinks to ask for her name.

"Mikasa," she whispers, as if it were a secret. "My name is Mikasa Ackerman."


End file.
